Songs from the Hall of Fire
by Sophia the Scribe
Summary: Welcome to Rivendell, wandering stranger! Come and listen to our lays of mighty kings and ballads of ancient heroes. Perhaps you will weep, perhaps you will laugh, but stay and rest until your heart is lightened and your sorrows lifted.
1. Prologue: Welcome to Rivendell

Disclaimer: J. R. R. Tolkien owns Rivendell and the Hall of Fire. I, on the other hand, take full responsibility for myself and my horse. And I do not own the inspiration for any of the songs of future chapters, though some of the original characters are mine. (I didn't want to have to repeat a disclaimer every chapter, so this now serves for this whole collection.)

* * *

The clear and cold midwinter sun through snowy branches fell;  
The Bruinen lay under ice now silent in the dell.

A human girl on dappled horse rode to the snowy bank;  
With reassurances she spoke and stroked Samara's flank.

She crossed the river's icy run and found the dale's rift;  
She cantered down its sloping sides 'mid falling water's drift.

As she approached the portico of elven Rivendell  
She tied her reigns to balustrade and rang the silver bell.

There came a dark-haired elven-maid 'mid fire's flick'ring light  
Who said, "Welcome to Imladris! What would you have this night?"

"Sophia I am, a trav'ling scribe; I wish for shelter here,  
And by your leave to copy down your songs and poems dear."

The elleth smiled graciously and gestured in the door  
Her guest then shook her cloak and stamped her boots on tiled floor.

"My name is Norwen," host remarked, "I hope you stay here long;  
Will you now rest, or listen to the Hall of Fire's song?

"For as a scribe I know you will expand your writings here."  
Sophia said, "Yes please!" her joy made plain for all to hear.

The elleth sweetly laughed and led her down the passageway  
Unto a carven door from which the sweetest strains did play.

An ellon met her now, said, "Welcome to the Hall of Fire!  
I hope you ease your heart here with our songs that light inspire.

"If you should wish to write them, ask each poet; he shall tell  
You all you wish to know of elvish songs in Rivendell."

Sophia smiled, wond'ring at the lighted torches' blaze  
And stepped into the music-room of ballads, songs, and lays.

* * *

A/N: I had this as prose, but one of my faithful reviewers (thanks, meldahlie!) informed me it was slightly pedantic and would sound better rendered in verse. Here is the outcome. I hope you enjoy my Canterbury Tales-esque collection of Middle-earth stories!


	2. Lestilwen of the Faithful

In Númenor the Isle of Gift beyond the flowing Sea,  
The Westernmost of mortal lands, once haven of the free,  
There darkness first its shadow cast by pride and folly driv'n,  
And many now forgot the One whose blessing they'd been giv'n.

A lovely maid of Forostar in Óndosto did dwell,  
The daughter of the city's lord, a King's Man high and fell;  
But Lestilwen was taught by those who'd known his Faithful wife  
And grew to grace in knowledge of the One she owed her life.

But by the King's decree this lord the Faithful ever sought,  
And by his guile a huntsman, Altamir, he once had caught;  
His daughter, now a lady, learned of this through servants' ears,  
And for her father's sins she sorrowed long with many tears.

In wav'ring heart she wondered what the One would have her do  
And prayed for wisdom, wishing she were not but one of few;  
And yet she saw the righteous way, bring it her father's ire  
For captured Faithful soon were burnt to Morgoth in the fire.

With stern resolve she set her plans and settled on her course;  
With wit and charm she righted what by might she could not force;  
And when the board was set in this elab'rate game of chess  
She moved her pawn—and showed the spirit true of Westernesse.

So now she worked her plan that Altamir his doom avoid,  
And when he learned she'd help him flee he thanked her, overjoyed,  
For he'd thought to escape alone to Elendili find  
But doubted the success of every plan that'd come to mind.

So shopping at the market she supplies and horses bought;  
Stayed home Midwinter's Day by claiming she was "overwrought;"  
The guards she sent on tasks she's planned before that they could tend  
Assuring them with woman's laughter she's replacements send.

So Lestilwen and Altamir stole in the darkest night  
Away from Óndosto, her father and the King's dread might;  
At last they came through many guises to Andúnië  
And met the Faithful there who to the One alone would pray.

When Atalantë's downfall Pharazôn's great pride had wrought,  
And through the Sund'ring Sea's upheaval ships the Faithful brought,  
Among them Altamir the huntsman, Lestilwen his wife,  
There on the shores of Middle-earth they thanked the One for life.


	3. The Dragon-slayers

In fair Beleriand of old,  
When sun was bright and moon was young,  
An elven-lord with hair of gold  
Ruled Nargothrond, and there he sung  
The light-filled songs of Valinor  
And told the tales of elven lore.

Three youths once lived there in that realm  
Who much admired their lord and king;  
And heroes' tales of spear and helm  
They often begged he'd say and sing;  
With merry laugh he'd smile and tell,  
And soon in lands afar they'd dwell.

These three remained true friends through all  
Their childhood joys and sorrows keen:  
An ellon, first, bright-eyed and tall,  
A man of young and fearless mien,  
A dwarf-lad there to learn his trade;  
A such unlikely trio was made.

But then their much-loved lord and friend  
Was called by honor to a quest,  
And they, too young to join his end  
He bid to stay, protect the rest;  
So Finrod said farewell and left  
And tales seemed hollow to those bereft.

And came unrest to elvish court,  
So men and dwarves sought other lands;  
And thus the friends were forced to part;  
Through heartfelt tears and clasps of hands  
They swore to one day meet again,  
These youths of elves and dwarves and men.

0

When time had passed, the elf now thought—  
And Magalad his name is told—  
To ask his lord for leave; he sought  
His youth-companions, friends of old;  
He searched from pastureland to mere,  
Through valleys far and mountains near.

The man, now in his prime and free—  
As Halin known by in that part—  
He too now wished again to see  
The childhood brothers of his heart;  
He left his settlement to find,  
Through moor and waste, those in his mind.

The dwarf grew restless of his trade—  
His name was Falk, by that he went—  
And wanted he to see replayed  
The blesséd moments they'd been sent  
Of friendship's joys, so he too left  
To search from plain to mountain cleft.

They knew it not, but drew they near  
Into each others' wand'ring paths,  
For fate decreed their ways would here  
Converge, and much would come to pass  
Within that stony mountain dell  
Of which hereafter I shall tell.

0

There once was delved a dragon-lair,  
Its entrance in this rocky vale,  
And Halin first took shelter there  
To break the rushing of the gale;  
But Daust the Mighty took offence  
And waited, kindled wrath and tense.

A whish of smoke in morning pale,  
And Halin stood at what he saw;  
A single blow of dragon's tail  
And he was drug in mountain's maw;  
He woke again to blazing fire  
And armed himself 'gainst dragon's ire.

Another dragon also dwelt—  
The golden Flauka, mate of Daust—  
When she saw Mag'lad's mithril belt  
She sought to fell him with a blast;  
He stood, undaunted by her flame,  
But fell beneath its heat the same.

And Falk his way through mountain sought  
The winter's weather to avoid;  
But soon he found those of his thought  
There trapped; the three met, overjoyed,  
And planned now to escape the cave;  
"To friendship!" cried the brothers brave.

So with the axe of Falk the Dwarf,  
The arrows keen of Magalad,  
And Halin's sword, with greatest stealth  
They found the dragons seething mad,  
Preparing to consume each prize  
Which now sprang forth with battle-cries!

A well-placed thrust, the twang of bow,  
"Take shelter, quick, from burning blast!"  
An axéd strike, a fisted blow:  
The battle many hours did last,  
But finally the day was had;  
Victorious friends stood, fair and glad.

0

So many times through passing years  
In elf-realm, dwarven-hall, or town  
A youth there many tales hears  
Of dragon-slayers of great renown;  
The Hunters Three who ever sought  
To mar the works that Angband wrought.

Their final end at last they knew  
In Nirnaeth Arnoediad  
Where sword and axe and bow would hew,  
Where enemies no warning had  
Before they fell before the Three,  
The friends, the brothers, fair and free.

* * *

A/N: A precursor to the Three Hunters? Perhaps where Aragorn got the name? We may never know!

P.S. I forgot to say this earlier: if anyone comes down with an inclination to write stories about the characters or happenings I've developed for these poems, you may feel free to do so, but please do send me the link; I'd love to read it! Thanks.


	4. Lay of Feingon

Warning: Herein lies a poetic description of burned limbs; this poem is not, perhaps, for the squeamish.

* * *

O gentle hearer, harken now to me,  
And learn of happenings of long ago,  
On Hither Shores of endless Sund'ring Sea,  
When Fëanor the King his death did know.

His firstborn, Maedhros, rode with parley sworn—  
As this you know, I shorten now my word—  
And he was taken, rage returned with scorn;  
But he was not alone as you have heard.

His captain brave was also seized alive:  
The faithful Feingon, loyal to his lord,  
Who for his sake at kinslaying did strive  
With his once-innocent, now-bloodied sword.

In Angband's might the Dark Lord's threats were sown,  
His lord, defiant, taken now to dread,  
And Feingon left to Morgoth face alone  
With grief that Maedhros as he thought was dead.

He stood before the Dark Lord's throne of might  
And said, "I will the shadow e'er defy!  
My lord and I both laugh at you in spite.  
I will not break, I never will comply!"

With that, he thrust his hand into the fire  
And stood unmoved though burned his flesh away;  
He stared at Morgoth, kindled wrath and ire,  
"You will not win, for treach'ry you will pay!"

The Dark Lord, wrathful, stood in terror's shroud,  
With blazing eyes threw Feingon to the ground;  
He raised his sword to kill the elf, unbowed,  
And death took who by pain could not be bound.

And so I sing whom history forgot,  
Whose sins were not assuaged by bravery;  
For love of lord he killed, he worked, he fought,  
And pray I that in death he now is free.

* * *

A/N: You may, perhaps, have recognized the source of this tale as the Roman youth Gaius Mucius Scaevola, who was said to have burned off his own hand, as well, in similar though slightly different circumstances. A rather heavier topic than normal; I hope you enjoyed it anyway.

Oh, and please do review; I have three readers who always do (thanks so much; you know who you are!) but other than that... I will even hang a carrot for you: if you drop an idea for song in a review, I will try to write it! It can be something from history or a fairytale that you wish to see Middle-earth-ized (though the stories will always be about as much changed as this one was) or something original. Thanks!


	5. The Thirty Knights

Oh hear my song and I shall tell  
Of darkest days when shadow fell,  
When Noldor learned they'd been deceived  
By Sauron's guise, and now perceived  
Eregion's fall, and so they fled,  
And followed where Half-elven led.

The remnant northward quickly drew,  
In skirmishes their foes they slew;  
But still they knew not where to go,  
Where they could hide from greatest foe;  
At last their scouts a valley found  
Both fair, defensible, and sound.

With all speed now they hastened there  
And hoped to find the dale fair  
Before by forces they were caught;  
They knew by what cost time is bought  
And warriors' lives refused to pay  
To safe-guard those now on their way.

In council a young captain brave  
Had spoken not; he wished to save  
The remnant of his people left,  
And if of life he was bereft  
He did not care so long as they  
Would reach the haven by his pay.

He told his soldiers what he planned  
And offered they to join his band,  
For all their lives they'd gladly give  
That others may have time to live;  
In dead of night they stole away  
To follow Captain Gilnor's way.

They earlier that day had crossed  
A narrow pass where time they'd lost;  
At this steep point the warriors stood  
To foes delay there all they could:  
These thirty soldiers gleaming led  
By Gilnor Fire-star at their head.

That evening did their foes appear,  
They stood their ground, they showed no fear  
Though orcs and trolls came bearing down  
To slaughter knights and buy renown;  
But though they strove with all their might  
They could not break through elven light.

For three days fought the elves alone;  
For three days sword and shield shone,  
There spear was thrust and bow-string rang,  
And through the battle long they sang  
Of Valinor the fair and bright  
And long-enduring songs of light.

But now at dusk on final day  
But one was left, their captain fey,  
And stood he till the sun's last light  
In shadow fell and came the night;  
Now thirty knights in elven-grey  
There dead mid starry fields lay.

By freely given blood was bought  
The elves' safe-passage, thus was wrought  
The saving of the light for all  
Those spared from elven-kingdoms' fall;  
Thus as you sit here on this day  
Remember who the price did pay.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to LadyOfAnfalas for the idea of doing (as you may have recognized) the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. The story is changed, as always seems to happen, but I hope you liked it! Please drop a review, and more suggestions. Blessings!


	6. Tirithion on the Helcaraxë

Upon the Helcaraxë in eternal winter's snow,  
When ice in driving, blinding shards on freezing wind did blow,  
By pale starlight naught was seen upon the ice-bound hills  
And naught was heard but howling wolves on wind that never stills.

The Noldor came there, valiant ones but foolish in this quest  
As in the shadowed night they turned their backs on light of West;  
Abandoned by their kin they followed on with burning heart  
And dared the path that only bitt'rest need could force to start.

In icy chasm many died on that despairing road,  
Through cold and hunger pressed though many fell beneath that load;  
But now I tell from all the dead of one who gladly gave  
His endless life in sacrifice that he his brethren save.

Amid the ice-slag cliffs a gaping gorge the Noldor crossed,  
A narrow snow-bridge all that kept the host from ending lost,  
But as the last contingent waited ere the gap they spanned,  
They heard the howl of hunting wolves upon the icy land.

The sole three warriors left on thither side their weapons drew,  
And two of them with whistling swords their adversaries slew;  
The third, however, stayed the bridge's entrance to defend  
And stood while remnant crossed the icy esker to ascend.

The wolves grew more ferocious, and the other ellyn, brave,  
Before increasing numbers fell and gave their lives to save  
The few now left upon that side who rushed to span the bridge  
While Tirithion stood alone, the last to hold that ridge.

And when his might was well night gone, his vigor nearly passed,  
The final elves now crossed what he defended to the last,  
Then with the end of strength and desperation he it broke:  
With mortal wounds he tumbled down the gorge, and never woke.

Still those remaining kept upon their brave though foolish way  
In sorrow cursed his name who'd left them with this price to pay;  
And yet beneath the ice-bound cliff did Tirithion die,  
To there amid the starlit snow for ever ages lie.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to meldahlie for suggesting Horatio and the bridge, and apologies for altering it so much! The Thirty Knights was so similar that I didn't want a veritable repeat, so I tried to make it original. Instead I may have mutilated it beyond recognition: I think the only similar point is the bridge! Ah well, I hope you liked it anyway, my friend. And the rest of you readers, as well!

Oh, and I'm sort of wanting to do a fairy-tale for a lighthearted change, but I need some advice. Should I do:

Cinderella  
Sleeping Beauty  
The Goose Girl (obscure, but I like it)  
or something else

and should I set it in

Valinor, Age of Trees  
Beleriand, First Age  
Númenor, Second Age  
Rivendell, Second or Third Age  
or Mirkwood, Third Age.

Please give me your advice (and review while you're at it...). Blessings!


	7. Martyrdom of Imladan

Beneath the shadowed sun of once-fair Númenor  
When Elendili lived but in Andúnië  
The King's Men ever called them rebels, sought them more  
To on the altars kill them for their Faithful way.

One King's Man named Imladan did by guile expose  
What he then called a treas'nous plot against the King:  
One night beneath the darkness 'ere the Sun arose  
He caught a Faithful man for Morgoth's offering.

Outside the pris'ner's door he stood to guard the cell  
Lest in escaping make Imladan pay instead;  
And sang he Eru's praises though the hours fell  
And soon to fiery execution he'd be led.

Imladan heard and wondered in his hardened heart  
What strength of faith the Faithful martyrs truly had,  
That he in such a time should by his song impart  
In such a place what hope could make him truly glad.

And when Imladan led the pris'ner to his end  
And saw he now the altar with its fire prepared  
The man, before the flames could silence, cried, "Attend!  
In death I trust the One alone whose love I shared!"

With such brave words Imladan's soul the Faithful drew  
And 'ere the end he begged his pardon, seen by all;  
Thus in his turn the priests of Morgoth also slew  
And burned him as with faith he to the One did call.

So one man's witness in the hour of death may be  
A saving grace to pierce the one who hears it raised,  
For even hardest heart and blindest eyes may see  
That One alone should worshipped be by men and praised.

* * *

A/N: Inspired by various stories of Christian martyrs (e.g. from Eusebius's _Church History_ and Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_ ), this took me by surprise and forced me to write it. I hope it makes sense: there's some pronoun trouble of whom each "he" is referring to, but I think it's clear in the end. Blessings!

By the way, consider this phenomenon with me: a guest reviewer requests something else of Númenor, and voila! in a few days this appears! Behold the power of reviews! (Are you picking up what I'm laying down here?) Please, please drop a line and make this poet's day?


	8. Mithriel and Thoron

In Greenwood long ago,  
Amid the elvish court,  
A warriors' band did grow  
Of courteous, noble sort;  
And from this company  
Of comrades brave and true  
Against an enemy  
For help could any sue.

There came an elven-maid  
With plea about her woes:  
To render to her glade  
Their help against her foes,  
The spiders who so sought  
To slaughter and destroy,  
That helpless she could not  
Restore her forest's joy.

From ranks of noble band  
Sprang Thoron young and true,  
Who sought with clasping hand  
The quest he might pursue.  
Thranduil granted this—  
Alone he should proceed,  
To serve with humbleness  
All that the maid should need.

But Mithriel, at his youth  
And rashness, as she thought,  
Rejected him, aloof,  
And scorned the help she'd sought;  
But Thoron kept his word  
And followed after her,  
Though she his courage slurred  
And anger sought to stir.

"A knight you call yourself?  
You're but a kitchen-lad!  
I sought a warrior-elf,  
But you they sent instead!"  
Yet still he would reply,  
"My pledge to help you heard.  
I at this quest will ply  
My strength despite your word."

Though she in slander railed  
Remained he by her side;  
Thus when they were assailed  
His sword at once he plied:  
The spider, seething, fell  
In death to forest floor,  
And Thoron in the dell  
Full calmly cleaned his sword.

Said Mithriel with disdain,  
"See, Fortune's favored son!  
But will your luck remain  
When facing more than one?"  
"My lady," he returned,  
"I took this victory  
By skills that I have learned  
From Greenwood's mastery."

Again more spiders dropped  
With hissing to the ground;  
Again their plans were stopped  
By Thoron's sword-play sound.  
And Mithriel showed the same,  
But started she to doubt  
The justice of her claim  
'Mid angry spiders' rout.

And when right narrowly  
He saved her from a sting  
And slew the enemy  
His promise honoring,  
Then she with tears did turn  
And humbly begged that he  
Forgive her maiden scorn  
As youthful foolery.

And Thoron smiled and said,  
"If I did stay with you  
Through insults to my head  
And slandering anew,  
Of course I now with joy  
Will help you on your quest  
And any other ploy  
You seek among the rest."

So Mithriel spoke and sung  
With Thoron as they rode,  
Till came they where there hung  
Their enemies' abode;  
There Thoron lustily  
His lady's foes he slew,  
And fighting mightily  
He cleansed the glade anew.

They rode back to the court  
In amity and peace,  
And told the King their sort  
Of courage and caprice;  
And in due time they wed  
At Thranduil's full consent;  
With joy they ever sped  
On quests that they'd been sent.

* * *

A/N: I killed two plans with one poem! Yay! First: I wrote something light-hearted where no one dies! And second: I used LadyOfAnfalas' recommendation of something from King Arthur and company (it's the story of Lynette and Gareth, if you didn't know). Thanks for the idea, Lady A!

By the way, I do have a plan for the Goose Girl set in Valinor, but it's...not...working...argh! So you get this instead. I hope you liked it (and please review to tell me so, or not, or whatever you think...). Blessings!

And you also may wish to know I added another stanza to _Lestilwen of the Faithful_ (Ch2) with more details about the escape (incidentally, Lady A suggested this as well. Thanks, my friend :D).


	9. Glorthon and Gilthoron

Upon the Mouths of Sirion  
When final Kinslaying was done,  
When Fëanor's sons had rode away  
And smoke and ruin claimed the day,  
In haven-town a silence fell,  
An eerie quiet in the dell  
Where battle-noises there had raged  
As elf on elf this war had waged.

Among the smoldering debris,  
By now red-tinted lapping Sea  
There many warriors wounded lay  
Who'd fought on both sides in the fray;  
But no one could their hurts attend:  
All fled or killed before the end,  
Yet little sound the Sea-wind bore:  
All silenced by that horr'r of war.

There on the shore two soldiers lay:  
One came with the attackers fey,  
Gilthoron, following his lord,  
Had struck the other with his sword  
Who also now lay by his side  
As slowly, endlessly, the tide  
Now washed away the bloodstains red  
From sand where kindred blood was shed.

Now Glorthon the defender brave  
Could see Gilthoron's thirst so grave  
That without water he would die  
Before their rescuers could draw nigh;  
But Glorthon knew that his own ill,  
'Ere Sun had set, himself would kill  
With or without the water he  
Still bore, there lying by the Sea.

So Glorthon turned to Gilthoron  
And stared into his features wan;  
He roused his enemy with a touch  
And did a deed of mercy such  
As few have seen beneath the sky:  
He said, "You need it more than I,"  
And held to him the water-skin  
With life-renewing drops within.

In gratitude and deep surprise  
Gilthoron stared in Glorthon's eyes,  
Then tentatively took the skin  
And drank the water found within;  
With stutt'ring voice he thanked the elf,  
Now dying, wounded by himself,  
And begged his pardon for the wrong  
He'd done that day at Sirion.

But Glorthon died 'ere he could say  
The words his deeds made plain that day:  
So ever yet Gilthoron knew  
He'd been forgiv'n by one he'd slew;  
From that day, in repentant heart,  
He turned away from bloodier part,  
And ever was he grateful for  
The elf who'd shown him mercy's door.

* * *

A/N: Sir Philip Sidney with a twist! Thanks to Mel for the original idea.

By the way, choosing two similar names for the elves was purposeful: they're not so different, after all, one was just in the wrong. But while I know that Gilthoron is Thorongil flipped around, please do not attach any significance to that. I simply needed a name with stress on the second syllable!

Blessings, my lovely readers! (and reviews?)


	10. Tirion's Maid

Disclaimer (this requires a special one): I have no idea, really, how much "magic" Tolkien intended his elves to be able to wield by song; in fact, the term "songs of power" may only be fanon anyway. Excuse me, please, if I've made any huge blunders with canon here, though I'd be glad to know about them. Enjoy! (I hope.)

* * *

In light of Aman's noontide lived an elven-maid:  
Amarië the Vanya, lady fair,  
Her eyes of blue, her face and temper sweetly laid,  
And light-reflecting shone her golden hair.

In Tirion's fair court a festival was planned  
And so she was invited to its days;  
Alone but for her maid she travelled 'cross the land  
And sang in golden light her lovely lays.

Her maid, however, jealous of her lady's place—  
Named Elwen, she did wish to meet the lords—  
Was trained in songs of pow'r by which she did erase  
And flip their features by her lilting words.

She worked it so Amarië could not herself  
See changes Elwen to their forms had made  
But that, on being seen by any other elf,  
Unknowingly he'd mistress take for maid.

So when they'd reached the palace set on Túna's crest,  
Were nobly greeted by Prince Finarfin,  
Then Elwen to a lady's rooms was sent to rest,  
Amarië, confused, to serve within.

0

Prince Finrod, so beloved and fair of Noldor court,  
Had just returned from hunting glad and free;  
Within the palace rumors heard of strangest sort:  
A maid a lady claimed to truly be!

In curiosity he sought the source to find,  
And so her mistress found and to her spoke,  
But Elwen, feigning sadness, said her maiden's mind  
Was damaged from the day she first awoke.

Now Finrod, unconvinced, sought out Amarië—  
Remember, now, he too knew songs of pow'r—  
He saw through Elwen's wrought disguises straight away  
And with his song reversed them in that hour.

Amarië, now knowing what'd befallen her,  
Soon laughed and thanked Prince Finrod for his aid;  
From then on by each other they entrancéd were:  
So strangely never-ending love was made.

* * *

Author's Rant coming up. Skip at your own discretion:

A/R: This poem would not cooperate! I mean, I've had the idea forever, but the characters wouldn't work, and the plot wouldn't work, and the rhythm wouldn't work, and the rhymes wouldn't work, and argh! It was fighting me every step of the way!

Okay, rant over ;). I had to get that out of my system. Anyway...

A/N: Considering the uncooperative nature of this poem (see A/R above), I'm not sure whether it makes sense or flows at all. I hope, after reading it, you can either relieve my mind...or inform me it "needs improvement!" See you in the reviews :).

P.S. You can decide what happens to Elwen since I couldn't figure out how to fit a fate for her into the poem. It's like those choose-your-own-ending stories!

Have a blessed day :).


	11. The Message of Angrod

When once again the darkness grew  
And Mordor Gondor's warriors slew,  
Then Umbar with the dark allied  
And raised a fleet of ships so plied  
To plunder coastlands, and they swore  
To bring to Gondor ruin and war.

Ecthelion had a captain brave,  
Great Thorongil who wished to save,  
So sought his liege-lord's leave to fight  
Corsairs who wished to fell the light;  
Prepared he sailed Dol Amroth's fleet  
That Umbar's ships their end may meet.

With stealth they stole in harbor's lee  
And there with fire took victory;  
The Corsair lord the captain sought  
And long they on the gangway fought;  
The pirate fell, and Gondor's best  
From harbor slipped without arrest.

They soon had reached Pelargir's quays;  
Inhabitants their joy now seized  
And celebrated Umbar's fall;  
One soldier, on the city's wall,  
Enthusiasm heard and thought  
To tell the Steward of triumph bought.

From city's gate he took his flight,  
He ran from dusk through moonlit night,  
Though field and wood he kept his pace  
Full steady in his chosen race,  
Till came at last to end of way,  
Saw city gleam in sunlight's ray.

Yet still he ran through city's tiers,  
On wind the chiming bells he hears  
And unproclaimed ran into court  
Where Steward did day's business sort;  
The nobles, startled with surprise,  
And suppliants, fix on him their eyes.

Now Angrod cried, "The victory's won!  
The threat is gone, the battle done!  
The fires burned, and now need we  
Not fear Umbarian victory!"  
As soon as he his news could tell  
In death he by exhaustion fell.

The city joyed in victory  
For now no Corsair fleet they'd see;  
So Angrod duty had fulfilled  
Though in completion it he felled;  
Though he be dead, yet lives he long  
Within this minstrel-poet's song.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to ElvenRangerRysel for the idea of Marathon's messenger! Isn't it sad that this was the only victory in the history of Middle-earth I could imagine fitting the story into? Just pretend Boromir brought this song to Rivendell or something, since I can't imagine Aragorn himself introducing it...

Sorry to anyone who thought this would be about the original Angrod; Tolkien reused enough First Age names in Gondor that I figured I could too!

Hope you all have a lovely weekend! Please make mine lovely with reviews :).


	12. Daylight's Song

In Gondolin the Fair before the day of fire came,  
Upon a tower white there stood a post of greatest fame  
Where chosen youths of elven-kin in times of feasting's call  
Would sound the bugle's song to echo from the highest wall.

Now one by name of Celegil his honored post he stood:  
On Gates of Summer's dusk his call he blew, at dawn he would,  
But e'er he sounded Morn for all who waited Anor's ray  
The light rose from the North instead and fire took the day.

This Celegil in horror watched as elves sought to defend;  
In fear he took his trumpet and from tower would descend,  
But then he thought of proffered joy that none could now partake  
And glanced up to the East: lo! Light now shone and Day would break.

Afraid he stood and knew his duty, done, would be his last,  
But thought of all below who'd hope be giv'n by bugle's blast;  
So as the Sun began to top the mountains in the East  
He put his trumpet to his mouth and blew the Morn of Feast.

King Turgon heard its sound and, strengthened, called defiant word;  
In city panic stilled and Tuor's guiding could be heard;  
A moment Idril paused and knew that day would come again  
Before her worries forced the flash of foresight from her ken.

But 'ere the song was ended now the bugler's calling broke  
For he'd, defiant, drawn the angered eye of every orc;  
With many arrows in his breast he, pierced, fell from the wall,  
Yet never could the darkness break his Song of Daylight's call.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the more-than-a-month between updates here! My sister came home from college, then Christmas happened, then I went skiing, and in general writing fell off my plate. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this one! Thanks to LadyOfAnfalas for the idea of the Trumpeter of Krakow: this is the first story prompt where I immediately knew what setting to do. In fact, it's the first one where the story's barely changed at all, as well! I'll quit rambling now and end with: please review ;)

Happy New Year, everyone! (Thought a few days late.)


	13. The Fall of Fingolfin

When Morgoth held his stronghold long ago  
And elvish warrior kings opposed his might  
The Dagor Bragollach its flame did throw  
O'er all the lands to cast its ruinous light;  
Thus on the Noldorim now fell the night—  
Or seemed it so to High King Fingolfin—  
For great courageous legions gone to fight,  
And elvish clans, and too his bravest kin,  
Were slaughtered on a battle-ground they did not win.

In wrath and great despair he took his horse  
And from his final bastion blazing rode;  
Toward Angband's might he ever set his course  
And in Anfauglith's ash Rochallor strode:  
As wind through choking dust he took his road.  
A light Valarin-fell now filled his eyes;  
As Oromë he seemed as power flowed  
And flashed about him in his furious cries  
To echo in his raging madness to the skies.

To Angband's brazen gates now came alone;  
His horn he sounded, smote upon the door;  
He made a single combat challenge known  
And Morgoth called to settle now his score.  
The craven lord of slaves could not ignore  
His insults and his horn-calls keen and clear:  
Before his captains' faces set to war  
With this great elf whose flaming eyes so near  
Now set the Dark Lord's teeth on edge in wretched fear.

Came Morgoth, iron-crowned, with blackened shield  
And Underworld's Hammer Grond the great;  
Beneath him, as a star in darkest field,  
Stood Fingolfin in glittering silver's weight,  
Blue-crystal guard, blade ice-keen, gleaming straight.  
So challenged came like thunder from his lair  
When challenger's bright fury set his fate,  
For to assay great enemy he'd dare  
That all his evil works to him he might repair.

With thund'rous voice aloft he hammer sent  
Hurled toward the elf who from it sprang away;  
A chasm pit in rocky earth it rent  
From whence there darted smoke and fire's ray.  
In battle-prowess lunged the elf-king fey  
And, wielding Ringil, wounded Morgoth sore;  
He fought as lightning rending through the day,  
And in dismay fell Angband's hosts galore  
As seven times its lord he gravely wounded more.

Yet finally weary grew the warrior king  
And Morgoth his great shield on him bore down;  
Thrice to his knees was crushed, and thrice did spring  
Again with stricken shield and broken crown.  
The earth in pitted ash was rent around,  
And stumbled he and fell at Morgoth's feet:  
With one his neck he forced into the ground:  
The elf with final strokes it hewed and beat,  
And black blood filled the pits, there smoking in their heat.

So died great Fingolfin the Noldor's lord,  
News of whose death the Eagle brought to kin:  
As body took he Morgoth's visage scored  
So ever after scarred his face's skin  
And limped he did where blade had pierced within.  
The orcs were ever wary to assay  
The mountains past the grave of Fingolfin;  
And men and elves indeed recall that day  
When he, their great High King, had stood unmoved and fey.

* * *

A/N: And finally...Sophia comes through with the long-promised Next Song! *cue cheers.* Sorry for the long wait...other poems, stories, and stuff (most of which I've posted, if you're interested) took over my Muse, and she only returned here because I finally buckled down and made her work at it. I figured that since I mention "mighty kings" in the summary of SftHoF it was long past time to have a mighty king exemplified here, so I simply re-wrote the death of Fingolfin from those several paragraphs in the Silmarillion in poetry form. 'Twas a good way to get back into narrative poems. I hope you liked it! Maybe the next one will come sooner...you never know! (Review, please?)

In case anyone's interested, the slightly odd-seeming rhythm here was intentional: it's called Spenserian Metre, named after Edmund Spenser who used it throughout (what he completed of) the Faerie Queene. I just recently read (a re-spelled) Book I of that, and it was amazing, so I figured I could give good old Spenser a shout-out by writing something in his metre. Here's the specifics:

Each stanza is eight lines of Iambic Pentameter, followed by one line of Iambic Hexameter.

The rhyme scheme is ABABBCBCC .

Not an easy metre to write in, but it was super fun! :)


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